Old Friends

When I opened my mail, a photo fell out. My friend sent it along with a note: memories of a lovely time. All four of us are smiling. Ivy and I are wearing sunglasses as we’re always conscious of the wrinkles around our eyes and don’t want to strain too much. We’ve removed our beach hats and puffed up our wavy hair. Our husbands have kept their caps on and are squinting at the camera.

We had hiked at sunset to the top of a steep hill on Peter Island. At the summit, we collapsed onto Adirondack chairs that someone had painted fabulously bright colors: red, royal blue, turquoise and yellow. My favorite was the yellow as the whole world was yellow at that time of day. The sun created a golden glow on the nearby clapboard cottage, the ochre earth and us.

Ahead of us on the trail, a honeymooning couple wandered. They ambled arm in arm and stopped every once in awhile to kiss or giggle quietly. Once they stood very close and put their hands into each other’s pockets. My husband, David walked ahead with his friend, Howard. They compared their camera lenses and wondered about the focus and clarity of their images. Ivy and I chatted behind them about our children, our homes and our aching feet.

The young man and woman offered to snap a picture of us. We were spread out on the four seats, so Ivy and I decided to sit on our husbands’ laps. “So this is what a long marriage looks like…” the bride commented.

Like us, Ivy and Howard have been married for decades. We met at a co-op nursery school when our sons were four years old. We’ve celebrated birthdays, bar mitzvahs and weddings. We’ve also cried at funerals. Their little boys stayed with us after Howard’s sister passed away tragically. When Howard’s father died, we were out-of-state. I remember Ivy insisting: “I know you’re in Vermont…please don’t rush back.” We packed up our car and were at the Temple in time for the service.

There is a comfort in a long friendship as there is ease in the conversation. Our history is shared. On this particularly cold January afternoon, it warms me to look at the four of us relaxing into a sultry, island sunset. Our closeness feels cozy like a well-worn afghan, a collection of good short stories and a fire in the fireplace.